


Office Supplies

by godhascursedmeformyhubris



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist in a skirt, Fluff, He/Him Pronouns For Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Kissing, Light Angst, Messy-Kiss-Averse Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, No beta we die like archival assistants, Pining Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Pining Martin Blackwood, Sex-Repulsed Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, The Lonely Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), Touch-Starved Martin Blackwood, Trans Martin Blackwood, ace author, it does not come up but its important to me that you know this, its projecting on jon hours you know the drill, yes they get locked in a storage closet and kiss what of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:27:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27521536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godhascursedmeformyhubris/pseuds/godhascursedmeformyhubris
Summary: He sighs. “I’ve got some work to do. Um, good luck with your pens.” A part of him that isn’t distracted by the utterly devastated look on Jon’s face hears the door creak behind him. Jon’s face shrivels into a frown.“Martin -”Martin definitely hears it as the lock clicks shut.Or, Jon and Martin get locked in a storage closet sometime in season 4.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 27
Kudos: 326





	Office Supplies

**Author's Note:**

> Is much of this out of character and not how the in universe mechanics work? Yes. Was this just an excuse to project my yearning and very specific kiss-aversion onto Jon and write Jon and Martin kissing on a table? Also yes.  
> This is not beta'd, not edited, and written at 2 in the morning, so it's a disaster. Enjoy! Apologies for any mistakes or incorrect British terminology.

All of his pens are gone.

This would not have been a problem before - well, Jon couldn’t put a pin exactly  _ when  _ interacting with his coworkers became like walking on an on-fire tightrope. At some point, he could have poked his head out of his office and asked, or brought the subject up with Martin when he was brought tea.

God, what he wouldn’t give for some of Martin’s tea. Or a conversation with Martin. Or really, just for Martin to make eye contact with him.

_ Patience. _ Martin knew what he was doing.

He hoped.

Now, however, he had to cautiously approach Daisy with a very awkward question.

She raises an eyebrow. “How long have you been working here?”

“Erm… a while.” He twists his bracelet around his fingers.

“And you still don’t know where the supplies closet is?” She swings her boots off Basira’s desk, mouth twitching.

“... no.”

“You’re a disaster, Sims.” 

He sputters, trying not to sound too indignant. “It’s just - I had assistants, for that sort of thing, so I never - I mean -” He cuts himself off abruptly, noticing the smile on Daisy’s face. “Oh. A joke. Sorry.” He forces a small, self-deprecating smile. “Ha ha.”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “Can’t you just…  _ Know _ ?”

“Er… I could. But I was hoping you could show me.” The anxiety in the pit of his stomach is threatening to boil over. “I could - nevermind. You don’t have to -”

She gets up and pats his shoulder, effectively cutting him off. “Follow me.”

He follows. He’s getting good at that, nowadays - following rather than leading, trusting rather than Knowing. Or at least he’s trying. Basira and Daisy seem to appreciate the gesture. Melanie… well, Melanie seems grateful for any excuse to avoid him, and if he’s not causing trouble… 

Daisy leads him up a flight of stairs, out of the Archives. He tenses. The Archives give a sense of peace, of security, of… familiarity. He almost laughs. Two years ago, he thought the Archives were a, for lack of a better word, spooky prison. Now…

Now they almost feel like home. Jon hates it.

He wants home to be someplace actually, properly safe. Somewhere cozy, maybe with a fireplace and his own selection of tea and someone to -

“Here you go,” Daisy says. Jon blinks owlishly, and she grins. “You think you could find your way back and forth?”

“Um… yes?” He looks around. He does not recognize this part of the Institute. “Maybe. I’ll figure it out.”

“Alright. I’ll head back down.” Boots scuffing against the polished floor, she gives a short wave and turns her back on him.

The supplies closet is less of a closet and more of a series of shelves and tables haphazardly thrown into an office space. As far as he can tell, there is no organizational system. He cannot see any pens.

“Now would be a lovely time for some of that unprompted Knowledge,” he mutters.

The Eye is, unsurprisingly, uncooperative.

***

All of his post-it notes are gone.

Martin uses them often, so it’s not unusual for him to run out, but he swears he’d just stocked up for the next month or two. Cleared out the supplies closet’s… well, supply.

It’s just that it’s getting difficult to remember things these days. The post-its help. On the bad days, yellow post-its cover nearly every available space on his desk, his computer, his notebook. It reminds him of Jon’s desk after -

He quickly veers off that train of thought.  _ No thinking about Jon.  _ No thinking about Jon, or a time before the Lonely, or Jon, or Jon’s hair, or the jumper Jon was wearing two weeks ago that looked a bit like the one Martin lost in the Archives, or his office, or his tea or -

He slaps himself lightly. He’s being pathetic, he knows that, and indulging in thoughts about Jon hurts more than just… being Lonely.

He waits until noon to go, because less people are going to be there, all going out for lunch or a cup of tea.

The door is already open when he gets there. Which isn’t exactly unusual, but most people make a habit of closing it when they’re done. It probably doesn’t mean anything.

The floor creaks as he steps inside. Immediately, a mussed head of grey-streaked black hair pops up from behind a shelf.

“Daisy, thank god - I can’t find any of the bloody pens, and for  _ some  _ reason, I can’t Know where they are in here either, because the Beholding can’t give me anything -”

Jon makes eye contact with Martin, and freezes. “You aren’t Daisy.”

Every muscle in Martin’s body is telling him to  _ run, run, run as far and as fast as you can because this is JON and you cannot be thinking about him, much less interacting with him, _ but he steels himself. “No, I’m not.”

Jon’s hair is a mess. It looks like, at one point, it was in a braid, but Martin gets the sense that Jon has run his hands through it one too many times, turning it into a tangled, staticky mess. Jon himself looks like a raccoon who got caught digging through the trash - not guilty, exactly, but not delighted to be in this position.

Martin starts backing up. “I’ll just -”

“You don’t -”

They both stop. Jon gestures vaguely. “You first.”

“Oh, uh - I’ll just come back later. Not a big deal.”

Jon stumbles around the shelf, swearing under his breath as he bangs his shin. “No, no, I’m just looking for some pens. It’s a big closet, we can share. Right?” A slightly hysterical laugh slips from his mouth, and Martin resists the urge to put his hands on his hips and ask how much caffeine he’s had in the past 24 hours.

Really, he has to resist the urge to  _ stay. _

He sighs. “I’ve got some work to do. Um, good luck with your pens.” A part of him that isn’t distracted by the utterly  _ devastated  _ look on Jon’s face hears the door creak behind him. Jon’s face shrivels into a frown.

“Martin -”

Martin definitely hears it as the lock clicks shut.

In a second, Jon is at the door, pounding it with his fist. “Daisy! Daisy, let us out!”

There’s no answer from the other side. Martin can’t muster up the energy to be all that upset.

_ And it’s not all that bad to be stuck in here with Jon,  _ a traitorous part of his mind whispers. He shoves it aside. 

“How did she even get the keys?” He tries the doorknob. “I didn’t even know this place had a lock.”

There’s a faint buzz at the base of his skull, and Jon glares at the door as though it had personally offended him. “She had Melanie change the doorknob last week.”

“Ah.” Martin doesn’t know how to react to that. “That’s… resourceful?”

“It’s childish, is what it is.” Jon kicks the door and immediately regrets it. “Ow! For -”

He grabs his foot, his skirt tangling itself around his ankle, and he hop-stumbles to one of the tables. 

Martin bursts out laughing. He can’t help himself. He hasn’t seen Jon in ages, and he’d forgotten -  _ missed _ \- his… antics. So he laughs.

It catches in his throat almost immediately, and he spends more time coughing than actually laughing, but the pure delight in his chest bubbles up and he can’t keep the smile off his face.

“That was -” he braces himself against the door “- so stupid.” He catches the wide eyed look on Jon’s face and barely keeps himself from laughing again. “Sorry, but - that was just so  _ you. _ ”

Jon pulls his shoulders back and crosses his arms. “What, you think I’m stupid?”

The bubbling delight in Martin’s chest withers and drains to the pit of his stomach. “No, that’s not - I didn’t mean it like that.”

Jon hurriedly uncrosses his arms. “No, I - I meant it like - I wasn’t serious. Just - joking.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No, I should’ve made it clearer.” Jon hoists himself onto the table and clasps his hands in his lap. “I’m sure - someone will notice we’re missing. Or Daisy will come let us out.”

Martin can feel the anxiety pressing up under Jon’s tone. There’s no one left to miss Martin. And everyone apparently hates Jon.

There’s a tension in the silence that follows that sinks into Martin’s skin, weighing him down. Like someone’s injected concrete into his veins. At least when he’s lonely - or Lonely, he wonders - there’s no tension like this.

“Do you - I mean of course you remember, but -” Jon visibly swallows, smoothing the fabric of his skirt. “This feels a bit like the time we got trapped in the elevator right after Tim played the wrong audio file.”

“Oh my -” Of  _ course  _ Martin remembers that day. He and Sasha didn’t let Tim live it down for at least a month. “You were  _ mortified _ .”

“In my defense, I hadn’t expected it.”

“Neither had Tim, apparently. I don’t think he’d listened to the clip beforehand - he honestly believed it was a follow up, not -” Martin waves his hands vaguely. “ _ That _ .”

“And then the elevator got stuck -”

“Your  _ faces  _ when Sasha told you the rescue team would take a few hours -”

“And he tried to explain it to me!” Jon throws his hands up, a bewildered smile lighting up his face. “I wanted to tell him, Tim, there is nothing you can say right now that won’t make me feel like I need to contact HR. Or a therapist.”

Martin leans against the door frame. “Did you?”

“Hm?”

“‘Contact HR,’” Martin says primly.

Jon laughs and shakes his head. “Honestly, I just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened.”

The mood shifts abruptly, and the smiles slip off their faces, slick with unspoken grief.

Jon swings his legs dejectedly, ankles hooked together. “I miss them.”

“... yeah. I miss them too.”

Tim and Sasha, Sasha and Tim. He can’t even think about them without being swamped by guilt, flooding the space behind his eyes with pressure. He didn’t even notice that Sasha was dead, and he knows that’s the whole point of the Not Them, but it still hurts, and Tim…

If he hadn’t been so worried about Jon, maybe he could’ve helped.

The feelings are muted, though. The guilt and the grief press against him, almost every day, but it's like he’s protected, like they’re trying to reach him through a thick wool blanket.

Jon picks at the edges of his jumper, which hangs loosely off his frame, like it’s two sizes too big. Martin is fairly sure he sees a safety pin holding the folds together.

Something clicks.

“Is that mine?”

_ Now  _ Jon looks guilty - deer in headlights, he thinks - and very, very slowly raises his gaze to meet Martin’s. “Maybe?”

***

In Jon’s defense, it is a comfortable jumper.

Melanie had insisted he do laundry, as he was running out of clean shirts - “It’s money out of Lukas’s pocket,” she’d said, as she ordered the most expensive washer-dryer set on the Institute’s budget - and he’d accidentally dried it on too high a setting, so…

Besides, Martin wasn’t using it.

He doesn’t say this, of course. Instead, his conflict-averse brain panics and he says, “It smelled like you.”

“Oh.” Martin has turned a lovely shade of pink.

_ Fuck _ . He can feel the red creeping up his own neck. “That sounded…” Pathetic? Creepy? “... bad.”

“It’s fine.” Martin’s face is doing something funny, like he’s caught between laughing, crying, and running. “It looks nice on you. With the skirt.” He pauses, a faint smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “If a bit big.”

He clamps his jaw shut before he can say something else stupid, like  _ I found it in the break room and cried myself to sleep the first time I wore it _ , or  _ I hated yellow until I started wearing this  _ or  _ please just give me a hug  _ or  _ kiss me  _ or -

Change the damn subject, Sims.

“Can’t you do that disappearing thing and get out?” The words tumble out before he can stop himself. He feels like banging his head against a wall.  _ Stupid. _ “Not that I want you to - I mean, if you’re uncomfortable, of course, but -”

He snaps his mouth shut.  _ Smooth, Jon. _

Martin’s gaze becomes unfocused. “I could.” Jon waits for him to elaborate.

He doesn’t elaborate. They lapse back into silence.

“I keep forgetting how hard it is with you,” Martin says. “Or, was, I guess.”

Jon releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Pardon?”

“Existing. Talking,” Martin says, and does not keep talking. Instead, he fixes Jon with a stare that parallels his own.

“Oh.” He scrabbles for something to follow that up with. “I’m sorry?”

Martin shakes his head and does not look away.

It stings a bit. Alright, more than a bit. It hurts that Martin sees it that way, sees  _ him  _ that way, but not unfair. Certainly not unfounded.

“I’m sorry. For everything, Martin.”

Martin’s gaze slides off him, and he hums. “It’s fine.”

But Jon forges on. “No, it’s not fine. I was - I was awful to you. First I didn’t take you seriously, then I didn’t trust you, and then I barely gave you the time of day and I didn’t help.” He gulps in another breath of stale air. “You said that the Lonely always had a grip in you, and I know I’m at least partially responsible for that. So, I’m sorry.”

Martin doesn’t respond. Jon stares at his hands, picking at his nailpolish, refusing to look at Martin, to press him for answers in the way Basira tells him he does when he stares.

He’s so worried about not looking at Martin that he barely notices he’s moving until he’s right beside him.

“Scooch.” Martin shoos him off to one side. Jon obliges, bewildered, and shifts down the length of the table so Martin can lean on it next to him. He is very aware of how close their shoulders are to touching.

“You left, Jon.”

Jon opens his mouth to say something - apologize again, most likely - but Martin cuts him off. “No, let me finish. You left. Either - either you pulled yourself away from us, or Elias sent you off on some wild goose chase that you went careening off on, and then you died.” He can see the muscles in Martin’s jaw clenching. “You up and died, Jon, and Tim and Daisy were gone, and I was  _ stuck  _ here, with no one who actually cared.”

“Basira -”

“Didn’t care. Neither did Melanie, and I couldn’t exactly talk to anyone else about the Archives. I was alone - really, truly alone - for six months, Jon. And you want to fix it with, what? A few conversations and an offer to gouge our eyes out together?”

“Martin -”

“I don’t need rescuing, Jon. I’m choosing this.”

“I miss you,” he blurts, and immediately regrets it, because Martin screws his eyes shut.

“That’s - Jon, that’s almost worse, because it means you want me around for you.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“No, that’s not -” Jon bunches the fabric of his skirt in his fists. “I - I mean, yes, that’s partially it, I won’t lie to you, but it’s not just that. I really, really care about you Martin, I -” He swallows the lump in his throat. “I just worry about you. I want you to be happy. And yes, part of that is because I miss you, but I can see that this Lonely business is making you miserable. I just want you to know that you - if you wanted, you don’t have to be alone.”

Martin makes a noise between a laugh and a cough, dry and brittle. “That’s rather the point.”

“I know.” Jon reaches out slowly, carefully, like Martin might bolt if he moves too fast, and places a hand on his arm. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t apply pressure. He just places his hand lightly against the fabric of his shirt, allowing enough space for Martin to move away.

Martin looks, slowly, down at his hand. He doesn’t move away. In fact, he presses his arm further against Jon’s hand.

Emboldened, Jon slides his hand down Martin’s arm to his hand, searching Martin’s face the entire time for any discomfort or disgust.

Before he can ask, Martin catches Jon’s hand in his own, studying it intently as he laces their fingers together. There’s a fiery intensity in his eyes, like he’s committing his own act of rebellion. Jon supposes he is, really.

“I really missed you,” he breathes. His lungs feel like they’re being wrapped in wool and squeezed. Martin in such close proximity, Martin’s fingers against his skin...

Martin smiles sadly. “I know.” He traces the folds and puckered skin of his scar. Jon can’t articulate how it feels to actually be touching Martin. An ache unfurls in his chest, uncomfortably warm, and he is struck by just how much he wants to wrap around him and never let go. He swallows, mouth dry.

Martin snorts slightly, suddenly, and Jon is startled by the sound. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” He takes a deep breath, and then  _ giggles _ , which makes Jon so lightheaded he barely catches what Martin says next. “What would Peter think of us, sitting here, making no effort to escape and holding hands?”

Something balloons in his chest, and Jon puts on his best serious face. “I think he would be very disappointed.”

Martin snorts again, and Jon breaks. The laughter pushes its way out of his throat, like it’s been trapped there for… God, he can’t remember the last time he properly laughed. Not like this. It’s breathless in its utter delight, and with Martin leaning against him, hands wrapped together, trapped in a storage closet, he doesn’t think he’s ever been happier. He sends a quick prayer of thanks to Daisy.

Martin wipes tears from his eyes, and Jon can’t help but stare at him. He’s smiling, a proper smile that shows off his dimples and pushes his freckles around his face. Impulsively, he untangles their fingers and reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

Martin freezes. Jon tries to pull away, but Martin grabs his hand and lays it against his cheek. In one swift motion, he pushes himself off the table and situates himself between Jon’s legs, their chests nearly pressed together.

_ Oh.  _ Not the end goal he was trying to achieve, but he’s not about to complain. He feels a bit dizzy.

Jon sees Martin swallow nervously, sees the exact moment that he decides not to ask, the moment he starts to back away. So Jon makes a decision.

“I think I would very much like to kiss you,” he says. Places his other hand on Martin’s collar, loosely curls his fingers into the fabric.

Martin blinks at him, once, twice, three times, face slowly turning a bright red. “Alright.”

_ Alright then. _ Jon tightens his grip and pulls him closer until their noses brush, and leans his forehead against Martin’s. “Are you sure?”

Martin responds by dipping his head and pressing their lips together.

There are no fireworks, no angels singing. There’s just Martin and his touch, filling every one of his senses until he feels like he’s drowning in it. He hazily registers that he’s buried one of his hands in Martin’s soft hair, the other hand slung around his shoulder and clinging to the back of his shirt like a dying man. Martin’s hands are on his waist, and Martin is touching him, and  _ kissing  _ him, and Jon never wants to let go. He wants to melt into Martin’s touch.

_ Screw it _ , he thinks, and swings his legs to wrap around Martin’s waist, hooking his ankles together and pulling him closer. He’s glad he wore a skirt with stretchy fabric. 

Martin hums in surprise. His waist is higher than Jon originally thought, so now he’s tilted backward with Martin leaning over him. One of his hands is braced against the table for stability, the other pressed against Jon’s spine. It’s such a ridiculous position that Jon smiles into the kiss, and Martin giggles again, and  _ God  _ does Jon want to drink that sound in.

He doesn’t deepen the kiss. He’s never been particularly fond of that sort of kissing - the sloppy, slimy tongued makeouts that he saw at late-night parties in Uni. He also doesn’t think Martin is ready for that sort of thing. So they simply lean into each other, relishing in each other’s touch as Jon massages lazy circles into Martin’s scalp and Martin rubs his thumb against his back.

***

Martin isn't sure what compelled him to kiss Jon. Well, that’s a lie. He knows exactly why he kissed him. It was the way Jon had gazed up at him through thick lashes and asked to kiss him, with the same reverence as if he’d asked to worship him, but he isn't complaining. Jon swirls his fingers against the base of Martin’s neck, and he shivers.

“Alright?” Jon mumbles into his lips. Martin hums. He feels a bit dizzy.

“Your hands are cold,” he says, and kisses him.

“I can stop.” His fingers pause.

Martin shakes his head and pulls back slightly, laughing as Jon pouts. He doesn’t go far, and drops a kiss on Jon’s forehead.

“Thank you, Jon.”

He tilts his head. “For what?”

Martin smiles and leans back in to kiss him. Jon wraps his arms around his shoulders again, anchoring him in place. He hums happily, and Martin wholeheartedly agrees.

He feels as though he could stay here forever.

Naturally, that’s the moment the door swings open, the smell of the ocean wafting through it. “Martin, you weren’t in your office, so I -”

Martin jolts up at the sound of Peter Lukas’s voice, but Jon’s legs and arms are still locked around him. He’s reduced to twisting his head at an awkward angle to look at Peter, who is standing stock still in the doorway. Melanie and Daisy are peeking out from behind the door. Daisy looks half mortified, half amused. Melanie has her phone out and is presumably taking pictures.

“Martin.” Peter sounds pleasantly confused, perhaps a little shocked. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

“Kissing me,” Jon supplies helpfully. Peter stares at him.

“Martin, I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Knew it,” Jon mutters, and Martin has to duck his head, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“We will discuss this later, Martin. I hope you know that - now, Jon, I think we can both agree that’s very childish.”

“Fuck off,” is all Jon says, and it sends Martin back into a fit of laughter, his forehead pressed to Jon’s shoulder. Melanie cackles from behind the door.

The ocean smell dissipates, and Martin can feel Peter’s presence disappear back into the Lonely. He lifts his head back up to press his forehead to Jon’s.

“You look awfully smug,” he chuckles, and Jon presses a quick kiss to his nose, then kisses him properly.

Melanie pretends to retch. “Eww!”

“Watch out, the gays have taken over the supplies closet,” Daisy says. Martin feels one of Jon’s hands leave his hair, presumably to flip them off, seeing as Melanie cackles at them again.

He does lean back eventually. “Jon?”

Jon begins kissing the rest of his face. “Hm?”

“Jon.”

“Yes, Martin?”

“We do have to stop at some point.” And he’s starting to feel too hot and prickly, and as much as he enjoys it, he just can’t be touching Jon anymore. Can’t be touching  _ anyone _ .

Jon pouts, but unhooks his ankles so they can both straighten up. There’s a nasty crick in Martin’s back, but the warmth in his chest more than makes up for it. He steps out of Jon’s space and stretches.

He catches the look on Jon’s face and stops. “Are you alright?”

Jon plucks at his rumpled skirt. “Is this - I mean, are we -” He sighs. “I don’t know if this was a one time thing. If you’re going to go back to, to avoiding me and -”

“Jon.” Martin can’t bring himself to touch him again - he’s definitely a bit overwhelmed - but he steps a bit closer. “I think any ‘progress’ Peter had planned for me has been thoroughly thrown out the window.”

Jon lets out an undignified snort, but sobers almost immediately. “So… are you going to come back?” He tries to take Martin’s hand again, but Martin shifts out of his reach.

“I think… I think I need some time.” Jon’s face falls, but Martin isn’t done. “But I don’t want to be distanced from you again. From any of you. So… I’ll think about it. I’m not going to be perfect, but I want to work with you.” He offers him a smile that strains his cheeks - he hasn’t smiled this much in  _ months _ . “I want to stay with you.”

Jon gives him a smile in return, though his eyes still search Martin’s face, like he’s looking for some hidden meaning, some greater promise. Maybe looking for any evidence that it’s a trick. “I supposed that’s all I can ask.”


End file.
